


Diplomatic Immunity (Or Five Times MacKenzie McHale almost caused an international incident)

by cerie



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Diplomacy, Gen, Politicians, faux pas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerie/pseuds/cerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MacKenzie has a long and storied career of diplomatic faux pas in spite of her pedigree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diplomatic Immunity (Or Five Times MacKenzie McHale almost caused an international incident)

**Author's Note:**

> While I am aware that MacKenzie's father was appointed as UN ambassador by Thatcher, who came into power in 1980, that would put her age as 30 at the series start (to have been born in the US after her father's appointment) and I don't find that realistic. I have, instead, decided that her father was a diplomat prior to his UN appointment and MacKenzie was born in 1975, making her 35 at the time of the pilot. 
> 
> Unfortunately, a fandom like The Newsroom is predicated on knowledge of past events and strict timelines and I've had to futz with this a bit to make it work.

_September 1981_

MacKenzie is only vaguely aware of the queen, in that her parents have told her that in spite of living in America that she’s English and England has a queen. She’s never actually met her or seen her anywhere other than occasionally on the television (which her mother tries to limit as much as possible). 

But today, she’s meeting the queen. She has a white dress and socks with lace trim and a bouquet of beautiful spring flowers to present. Her mother has told her it’s very important not to say anything unless the queen says something to _her_ first and to curtsy and be a proper little lady.

MacKenzie is prepared. She can _do_ this. Her brothers aren’t getting to meet the queen, after all, just her.

She walks very, very carefully along the carpet to meet her and is a little distracted by all the cameras and people when suddenly her feet come out from under her and she goes tumbling down. She doesn’t want to cry. Crying is for babies and MacKenzie is _six_ and she’s too big for that. Still, there’s big tears rolling down her cheeks and she’s torn her dress and her chin hurts.

There’s a lot of people rushing to help her up but the one who actually gets hold of her is blonde and pretty with a dazzling smile. _The Princess_ , MacKenzie thinks, trying to remember everyone her mother and father schooled her on before the ceremony.

“It’s all right. What’s your name?” MacKenzie stammers it out, embarrassed, and the princess smooths down her hair and offers her own. “I’m Diana.”

That story goes around the dinner table decades after MacKenzie has left lacy socks and frilly dresses behind, much to her chagrin.

***

_November 1990_

There are few places MacKenzie wants to be less than hanging around the UN building waiting on her dad to be done with his meetings. She isn’t really supposed to be here, exactly, but she’d gotten suspended from school for smoking and cutting class and her father had sent a bodyguard to come get her and babysit her until he was done. 

While she’s English at school, (based on her inability to affect an American accent by any stretch) she wants desperately to be American (and purposely calls her father Dad and uses American slang to spite him). She hates being stuck between two countries. She hates being constantly hounded and never left alone and despises the security detail. She guesses this is how Prince William feels, not that she knows him personally. She wants to smoke and go to Bloomingdales and has no interest whatsoever in whatever UN Security resolution is being voted on today. She manages to give her bodyguard the slip when he goes to the bathroom and ends up smoking in an abandoned hallway when someone trips over her legs.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asks, in full teenage pout, and frowns a little as the man starts speaking with a heavily accented voice that tells her very little other than South America. She doesn’t get to parse what he’s saying before she’s hauled bodily off the floor by her bodyguard. “That’s the Secretary General, kid, watch your mouth.”

MacKenzie flushes, mumbles an apology and hopes like hell that her father doesn’t get wind of it. He does, but there’s bigger fish to fry: apparently now the US is allowed to go to war with Iraq.

***

_July 1992_

MacKenzie is on holiday from school and grateful she’s finally back in the US after being in England for the last nine months. She doesn’t particularly care for her school now but she guesses that’s a natural consequence of being a fifteen year old punk that got expelled from every private school in New York before her parents washed their hands of it and shipped her back to England to be boarded.

It’s easier in some ways. They wear uniforms so she looks the same, sounds the same. She’s well-traveled and that makes her popular, as do her numerous American affectations of speech in spite of her very round English vowels. She’s bright, does well, and plans to attend Oxford without taking a gap year so she can go on and start making _change_ in the world.

She wants to be an environmental lobbyist. Her father thinks it’s a little idealistic and silly of her and her mother wants to know if she’d like to meet some boys while she’s on break and MacKenzie makes a face; boys are the last of her concerns when she doesn’t want to get married, ever, emphatically, exclamation point.

There’s a state dinner tonight and so instead of flying into LGA like she normally does when she goes home to see her parents, she flies into DCA. MacKenzie is an experienced flier and barely pays attention as the plane touches down. She barely pays attention to the guard picking her up or the diplomatic limousine driving her to the White House. She’s been to the White House more than once and knows all the ins and outs of it; she could practically give the tour.

Her mother has told her they have a dress for her there and she picks it up, changes and ends up in the Diplomatic Reception Room looking for her parents. There’s a receiving line, which they’re in, and they graciously allow MacKenzie to cut. 

This is the first time she’s met President Bush (but not the first time she’s met a president) and MacKenzie isn’t really nervous. She shakes his hand, smiles, and immediately asks him his position on greenhouse gases and the environment, to her parents’ abject horror. “MacKenzie Morgan McHale,” her mother hisses, all sweet smiles to the president and dark looks to MacKenzie.

The president doesn’t address her question but he doesn’t seem to be angry. Instead, he gives her a smile and a little laugh that almost seems...silly, in a way, and she wonders if she put him on the spot. That makes her smug. Only seventeen and already making politicians hot under the collar. That’s the start of a promising career.

***

_October 1996_

MacKenzie is aware she’s a bit of a prodigy. She did Oxford in three years, her MA in nine months (thank you, Columbia) and now she’s 22 and barely old enough to drink in America but a full time intern at the New York Times with aspirations to write big exposes and bring the truth to the American public. She jumps at the chance to go out on tour with the presidential campaign and while she has no illusions about actually meeting President Clinton (and doesn’t intend to use nepotism to make it happen, either) somehow her reputation precedes her. 

She’s busy with her tape recorder and her notebooks and trying to get everything together to interview a low-level staffer about the campaign when she runs smack into someone. Damn. She looks up, expecting another of her ilk and finds, instead, she’s run directly into President Clinton’s secret service detail. 

“Damn, I’m sorry,” she spits out, slowly realizing the president is standing _right there_. She smooths down her skirt and takes a deep breath, frowning a little when the president winks and holds up a hand, saying everything’s all right and asking her name. MacKenzie provides it, stumbling a bit over ‘McHale,’ and the president smiles even wider.

“Think I met you before when you were younger,” he says, going on to relate some inane story about her father. She ends up getting a personal interview, which thrills her and irritates her at the same time; MacKenzie wants to be known for her talent and merit, not because she’s fresh-faced and has a father deeply-connected in international politics.

***

_August 2005_

MacKenzie has been shuffled around at ACN more times than she can count and while she’s not terribly experienced when it comes to broadcast journalism, she has a long pedigree in print and it’s a little insulting. ACN is not first in the ratings, either, and she knows it’s good experience to build something from the ground up but she’s a little bitter after the prestige she enjoyed at the _Times_. 

She’s also irritated that Will McAvoy is so damned likable that he refuses to have any opinions and she’s complaining about this to one of the APs who works under her, curses streaming out almost as fast as the smoke from her cigarette. She doesn’t smoke all that often anymore, only when stressed, and this new job definitely qualifies as stressed.

“If he’d just fucking do something other than smile and let people pass off bullshit on the air, I might have a little more respect. His EP must not do anything in the control room but stare stupidly at his fake smile and helmet hair.” Rosie, the AP, starts frowning a little and then she goes very, very pale. MacKenzie is about to ask her what’s wrong when she hears someone clear their throat behind her and it only takes a few words in that calm, Midwestern voice for her to realize who, exactly, just overheard that entire conversation.

Will _fucking_ McAvoy.

“So, MacKenzie. I thought I’d get a chance to know you before you ran the show tonight,” he says cheerily, ignoring the fact that she’s buried her face in her hands. Rosie is no help, as she quickly peels away from the table and leaves her seat vacant for Will to sit down. When MacKenzie looks up a few minutes later, he’s sitting back comfortably with a shit-eating grin and a cigarette between two long, elegant fingers.

“Sorry, I was just...sorry. I didn’t realize you were standing there.”

Will laughs, clearly amused. “You wouldn’t have said that shit to my face? I think I’m a little disappointed.”

It isn’t the first time MacKenzie’s flubbed up a meeting and she suspects it’s not going to be the last.


End file.
